Sorority of Submissive Girls
P. N. Dedeaux (as Carl Buono)
Venus Library (1972)
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SORORITY of SUBMISSIVE GIRLS
Carl Buono
VENUS LIBRARY
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, for any reason, by any means, including any method of photographic reproduction, without the permission of the publisher
First Venus Library Edition, 1972
First Printing
Manufactured in the United States of America CHAPTER ONE
‘And another thing, frosh’, said the statuesque brunette, slapping the paddle on her nyloned calf,
‘you're all going to have to work on your hems. Your skirts are far too long.’
The five girls lined in the sorority house's ‘bum room’ dropped their eyes to their minis. But this was Brierton Academy. Bermuda's Best. And probably the world's. BB – as it was known through every social register in England, America and Canada alike. Beastly Beatings it was sometimes called by alumnae, who were not celebrated for opposing the continuation of the system.
Moreover, this was Beta Beta Rho, the most exclusive, the most desirable – and of course the most desirable because exclusive – sorority in the whole globe, practically. The fees were quite fantastic.
‘Get those skirts short! ’
Blonde seventeen-year-old Constance Wood let her eyes stray over her own micro a moment. How could it be any shorter … and still called a skirt?
A voice enquired, ‘Does that apply to tweeds, Matron?’
This came from the girl in centre, a trifle older than the others, dressed in a crisp Chanel two-piece, with New England aristocracy written all over her.
‘It certainly does, Pledge Mason’, came the retort. ‘Tweeds and knits alike. The rule at our rival, Gamma Phi, is actually no longer than a foot this half. And woe betide their rhinies who infringe. Here we're relatively liberal. At least’, she laughed with another shudder-making rap of her paddle, ‘as regards attire. But before the term is over I think you can all count on some well-warmed bottoms in this house. So I hope you're all clear on that. For the rest of the term you “forget” panties, Pledges. Panties in your purses, that's what I always say.’
‘But if we're to collect these twenty signatures, from boys …’
‘You get them on your panty girdles, worm’, came the snapping reply, to darkly flashing eyes.
‘Twenty by the first Hellenic, or Hell Night, which is the last Friday each month. Three of them a term. And one thing – you'll find those pens write best over filled girdles, girls. Worn. The boys will appreciate that. Don't forget to enter your Punishments, whatever, in your notebooks, and get every Praelictor to sign your paddles, too. They like to “blot” them, and I'm sure I don't have to tell you how.’ The girl gave an eloquent wink. ‘No, skirts must show your stocking tops. If your hem doesn't touch the level of your thumbs when standing, you're okay.’
‘Thumbs or fingertips, Matron?’
‘Thumbs, rhinie. By the way, that question wasn't intended to be sassy, was it, Pledge M.?’
‘It wasn't meant to be sassy, Miss.’
‘I'm so glad’, the senior girl smiled pleasantly, swinging her paddle. She had on a short tunic of pleated black leather which swirled as she moved.
BB was inscribed on her left breast. ‘For your sake, Joan.’
As if mesmerized, five pairs of eyes watched the paddle.
‘And one more thing. No all-in-one stockings.
They're out for frosh, understand. At least until you're initiated. For you it's a lickety-split hipline, kids, lycra spandex panty girdles, gossamer light, and with lots of snaps. As a matter of fact, you'll find that your Dorm Sisters will insist on at least six tabs for each leg. You're going to have to get used to spinnaker-taut stockings, seams straight, and skyscraper heels. All Beta Rho Pledges report for inspection by our Prae of the week before classes. No slacks until six, unless you want to go to bed with a nice warm one.’
Another voice ventured, ‘Is it … permissible to wear what we like, in our dorms?’
‘Sure. Wear nothing at all, if you like. And you probably will, if I know anything about the supervision of our Dorm Sisters. But all slacks have to be skin-tight. Or else. If you can get so much as a razor blade into the back pocket of your jeans they don't rate, kids. We have to get more wolf-whistles than Gamma Phi.’
‘I have to put on mine lying down’, said the youngest of the five, in an awkward giggle. ‘I mean, prone.’ She was a chubby, cheerful teener, only sixteen though appearing older in cashmere sweater and tiny tartan micro. An ash-blonde braid hung down her back. She giggled nervously again. ‘I have to triple-sew them at the seams.’
‘It might be very well’, said their Senior after a moment, patting one palm with her paddle, ‘if all you frosh got the first rule of the House firmly into your heads – namely, that once in here you don't speak until you're spoken to.’
There was dead silence in the rank.
‘By now, you're all supposed to have learned our regulations. Well, Terry?’
After a moment the girl with the braid answered softly, ‘A sin of Commission, Matron.’
‘Right. Go and put yourself down in the Demerit Book. In the Commission column. Talking out of turn.’
With hanging head the girl walked through to the hall where, on a high lectern, a large black book lay open. She took a pen and wrote. The others watched her queasily.
‘Thus assuring Teresa’, said the tall girl pacing in front of them, ‘of five strokes with the birch on settlement night, Friday. Give her something to look forward to, eh?’ Four pairs of eyes swivelled to the perky butt of Teresa (‘Terry’) Sands, jutting out the back of her short tartan skirt. ‘You're going to be surprised at how well our system works. Two or three good Friday lickings, and a pledge won't so much as take her eyes off the floor for the rest of the term. Step back into line, Terry, and don't look so cheerful. The birch never killed anyone yet, though I must say I never exactly saw anyone asking for seconds.’
Sandra McIllick, House Matron of Beta Rho designate, stood with her paddle drawn across her straddled thighs, surveying the five fearful pledges.
‘All right. That's about it. I think I've summarized the situation for you pretty well.
Brierton is considered one of the top colleges for women in the world. And it's pretty select. We have two-fifty in residence this term. All you frosh have come from rich families, and are going to lead protected, pampered existences at the top of some great society. So, as you know, for this very brief period of your lives you're going to be … put through it. Discipline. Self-control. Abstinence. Fortitude under pain. Only these qualities can get you into Beta Beta Rho.’ She finished with a dramatic flourish of her paddle – ‘Once you're initiated, you'll be grateful to us. Your parents will, too. You will have COME THROUGH!’
A golden gleam lit in the eyes of Terry Sands.
‘Stand out, you!’
‘Who? Me?’ The lissom seventeen-year-old who came from one of the New Hampshire's leading families was unused to being addressed in this fashion. After a second's hesitation, however, she stepped forward, her chic, fawn flare-pants hugging her rounded hips closely.
‘What's your name again?’
‘Constance Wood.’
‘These slacks are fairly tight.’ The paddle tapped their back and they bounced, heavily.
‘Crease where you crease, Connie. You wearing anything underneath?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because. Well, we were sent for, and told to
come right over. I was in the shower, and I just grabbed the first thing.’
‘Drop them.’
‘You mean, take off my …’
Sandra McIllick made an impatient gesture. A zip flicked and the slacks fell to the girl’s ankles, exposing her surprisingly full hips and bulging front. The Matron ran a thoughtful finger through the dry dark fleece there.
‘I guessed you used a tint. But you clipped for the bikinis, huh. Listen, whether you frosh shave or not is up to your individual Dorm Sisters. But this is altogether too hairy. And unaesthetic. The line of the division must be visible, and the whole thing more … well, inviting. By the way, when was this last visited, Constance?’
‘Visited?’ The girl began to glow a dark red.
‘Invested by the erect male organ, silly.’
‘Must I Answer that, Miss?’
‘Yes. Absolutely. All you frosh, as I said, have got to get into this habit of feeling yourselves as things. Dig? I mean, like you've got to answer intimate questions without thought, just as you've got to have this sensation of material tight on your skin, and the feeling of impending disaster hanging over your heads, all the time. Well?’
The girl took a deep breath. ‘Winter Carnival.
Dartmouth.’
‘Did he get in good and deep?’
Constance Wood sighed. ‘It wasn't a singular, Matron, it was a plural. Five members of the football squad, in a frat house.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘I'd passed out. They got me drunk beforehand.’
‘That's horrible, Connie’, said the Senior with feeling. ‘That's just what we want to eradicate here. I'm sorry.’
‘May I put these on again?’
The Senior nodded with a smile, even reaching to help the young girl with her zip.
‘We mustn't forget we're a service sorority, must we’, she said gently. Her strong hand stroked over the curves of the now-clothed can, assessing its resilience. The cheeks were long and smooth, pear-shaped at the base and with a deep division.
Beside them the paddle looked eloquent.
I'm afraid these two beauties are going to be feeling awfully sorry for themselves for a month.
But all things come to an end. If you make the grade, and get through Hell Night, then you'll be officially inducted into Beta Beta Rho.’
More than one girlish chest in front of her swelled at these words.
The one thing we don’t allow is a spoiled brat.
Your parents sent you to Brierton precisely to have any of that kind of nonsense knocked out of you.
With rights go duties, always remember that. You girls are from the small class of over-privileged.
Well, for a month you're going to have a course in what it feels like to be in the bottom half. And the emphasis, chickens, is on the bottom.’ The brunette's big face split into a broad grin, her mouth juicy as a fruit's. Terry Sands watched her with a strange, if sinking, fascination. There was this well-nigh theatrical gloss, and raven hair, and broad straight shoulders. Terry's eyes slipped to the slapping paddle. ‘All right, frosh. You know House rules. Unless you have any further questions, you can report to your Dorm Sisters.’
There was a hesitation in the rank, then a little motion of dipping at the knees before the five turned to go.
‘Wait a minute, please!’
They looked back.
‘One of you forgot to curtsey.’
‘That was me’, said a voice, after a second. ‘I’m sorry, Miss.’ Rowena Ricks bent her shapely knee.
‘It's a bit late now, frosh.’
The girl was a luscious redhead – the only one among them – of eighteen. As tall as the House Matron confronting her she stood penitently contemplating the flat polished surface of the Paddle, inscribed as it was with the three sorority, letters. Her mane of hair cascaded to a blunt-cut behind, where it fell down an expensively casual little black wool cocktail dress with cheekily flaring skirt. Her soft velvety face was Latin, or southern, in style; more than once she had already been told she resembled some heroine out of a Gothic romance. Her breasts, too, were a stalwart shelf, studded with two urgent bullets, thick as thumbs, which testified to the fact that she, too, had thrown on this dress over little, if anything, to come over.
‘Stand out here. And hold your head up, Miss Ricks. Now do twenty curtsies, real deep ones, slowly, and with precision.’ When they had been completed the Senior snapped: ‘You a redhead all over?’
Rowena gulped and nodded. Obviously trying to enter into the spirit of things, and deflect the other's purpose to the trivial, she added in a nervous rush, ‘And inside as well as out, too, I guess.’
There was a deathly silence.
‘Put yourself down for Impertinence, Pledge.’
Rowena's head fell. Then she turned and clicked neatly to the Demerit lectern, where she wrote slowly.
‘Let me remind you, frosh. There's Impertinence, Insolence and Impertinent Insolence – the worst. But if you value those pretty little backsides of yours, don't get a ticket for Insubordination.’
Having completed her task the freshman stood in front of her invigilator, her big body awkward.
Sandra McIllick shot her a craggily affectionate look.
‘I'm going to give you four swats for lack of respect, Rowena. Stand with your back to the class, if you please, and bend over.’
It was a sumptuous back, with almost a showgirl sloth about the broadened area as she bent.
‘Hands on knees. I want them nice and relaxed.
The paddle is an impact instrument, folks, as you'll soon be seeing.’
The smiling Senior whipped the little skirt over the bending girl's back. Rowena had on stocking tights of dark taupe, modestly opaque at the top.
Despite this, her girth in this position pulled the stuff tight enough for it to be transparent and the division between her perfect thighs was continued upwards in a sinuously bevelled line. It was a superb, languorous, and slightly fatty Sitzplatz, or situpon, only held together by the nylon sheath.
Sandra McIllick stood back with the paddle in her hand and gave it a measuring tap. The flesh, though bent, trembled at her touch.
‘That's quite a back of the lap, Rowena. Let's see if I can show it some respect, at least.’
She stood astride and raised the paddle with a frown of concentration. The instrument was taped with black at its grip, the straight length of springy pine less than half an inch deep and so slightly pliable. With a slowly accelerative motion she belted its surface across the stretched buttocks in a shuddery crack that rapped through the empty salon and dropped the jaws of at least two of the watching frosh.
‘Ah!’
There was a long pause and then the second stroke whacked into the fat, visibly driving the flesh upwards before it fell back, leaving a bar of red behind it.
‘Au … uuuuu! Pur-lease!’
The girl's head had come back, her hands were rubbing the front of her thighs as she strove to keep position. Sandra McIllick smiled.
‘If your skin's as sensitive as that, Rowena, you'd better watch it this month. Feet together now.
These next two are going to be harder. Stick it out, please. Let's see if we can't ladder these panty legs for you.’
The third drove the big girl off balance and the fourth, following fairly soon on top of it, jerked her straight, face twisted, hands grasping under her now fallen skirt as if trying to drag off some boiling girdle there. She hopped in place a second.
‘Hou! Phew!’
The Senior tossed back an inky look that had fallen over her face in her efforts. ‘You wait till Hell Night, my dear. Really, you've no idea how you look like that, Rowena. But I think you’d look even more so giving me a nice, deep curtsey. Yes, and a big kiss to the paddle. If you please.’
When this was done, the five girls, their faces very straight, were dismissed.
CHAPTER TWO
Dusk was soft on the laburnums and elms of the lo
vely Brierton campus as the five picked their way across its lawns to their new dorm assignments.
The tallest of them, Melissa, slipped a cool thin arm into that of Rowena Ricks, since her sight was short and she didn’t want to stumble in the falling dark. Bermuda evenings were very gentle.
‘Gee, that really hurt.’ The redhead was still ruefully massaging herself behind.
‘I thought she hit you much too hard’, said Constance Wood, looking around.
‘Not as hard as Terry’s going to get it last Friday of the month, I fear’, said Joan Mason who was leading the way, heels clicking on the stone path under her trim pencil skirt. ‘They get those birches to sting like crazy. Brrh!’
‘Well, it’s a test’, said Teresa Sands, her chin tipping proudly.
‘It certainly is.’
‘And if what my mother told me is correct, there are going to be plenty of them in the weeks to come.’
‘So about all we can do is follow the jolly old sorority slogan – Grin and bare it, huh.’
‘I’m going to do my best to’, said plucky little Terry Sands, her pigtail swinging almost white in the gathering night. ‘After all, it isn’t every girl who can get into Beta Beta Rho.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Right.’
There was a murmur of reverential admiration among them.
‘It’s rather wonderful to think of, really.’
‘Only five of us, out of two-fifty kids. It’ll link us together all our lives’, said Melissa Hope-Trumpington solemnly. ‘One couldn’t dare to fail.’
‘Did you get it at home, Melish?’ asked a voice.
‘Yes.’ After a moment.
‘You, Connie?’
‘Hairbrush.’
‘Oh that. I was spanked, with the strop’, pressed on the impetuous sixteen-year-old, ‘and it was never less than twelve. What about you, Rowena?’
‘Definitely.’
Terry, paused. She shot a glance at the quiet girl of twenty high-heeling ahead, the studious one who seemed to have some secret and who had come to school so relatively late.
‘Joanie?’
‘I … uh … sex spankings, yes.’
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